FILMS

What's playing at Sundance this week:

GARDEN STATE

"Garden State" is an exciting debut for a young man mainly known as the star of a glib medical sitcom. Written and directed by Zach Braff (he's on the NBC hit "Scrubs"), this definitely ain't no sitcom, though at times the film is a shade too quirky-cutesy for its own good. And while Braff's script may suffer from long-windedness, his direction - of both cast and camera - is so confident that this debut could well mark the start of a major career.
Braff himself plays Andrew Largeman, who is first witnessed experiencing a plane crash. A disconcerting way to begin a movie, to be sure, though of course it's only a dream. The reality Andrew wakes up to isn't much better, though - depression, heavy medication and the news that his mother died the night before. To make matters worse, Andrew - an actor of some kind - waits tables in a trendy L.A. Vietnamese restaurant, and must wear eyeliner while doing so.
Back in New Jersey, Andrew runs into a high school buddy at his mother's funeral - he's a gravedigger now (played by the fantastic Peter Sarsgaard). Now somewhat reconnected to his past, the zombified Andrew floats along like a 21st-century Benjamin Braddock in a post-9/11 world of forced fun and even a druggy spin-the-bottle party. The "Graduate" comparison is also apt because of Braff's percocious mastery of widescreen visual puns, and gracefully interwoven melancholy folk-pop by the likes of The Shins, Nick Drake and yes, even good old Simon & Garfunkel.
So that's Andrew's dislocated life. He's 26, he hasn't been home for nine years, and he can't relate to his father (Ian Holm), his friends, anyone. He can't even grieve for his mother. Just when "Garden State" threatens to dissolve into a plotless quirkathon, in comes The Girl to perk things up, in the fine form of Natalie Portman (who, between this and her ferocious work in "Cold Mountain" has made up for that whole Queen Amidala thing).
Portman's Sam is a talky, funky local lass who instantly recognizes the pain in Andrew, and makes it her mission to draw him out. In short order, she brings him home to meet her mom and brother (an African immigrant, long story) and check out the world's largest Habitrail, complete with dead hamster. The burial of said hamster is Andrew and Sam's first real bonding experience, and it makes for a touching scene that sends the film in a new, more heartfelt direction. Portman's young Diane Keaton mannerisms give way to a more nurturing, comforting side; it suits her. And sure enough, Andrew begins to open up, about how long he's been on medication, why he's on medication, and most importantly the series of sad events leading up to his mother's death.
The chemistry between Braff and Portman and their characters goes a long way, saving the film when it takes a few too many bizarre plot/location turns and overplays its dramatic hand towards the finish, especially as concerns Andrew having a long-delayed "deep and meaningful" with his dad. Effusive emotional outbursts aren't the film's best style. But when Braff keeps the tears and the kookiness in check, he takes us into some unusual, interesting areas of the human psyche. And makes us laugh a good deal while he's at it.

NAPOLEON DYNAMITE

So, this is very much like a sequel to me. I was first introduced to some of these characters in a short film called “Peluca” that screened at Slamdance ’03. I fell in love with the quirky humor of filmmakers Jared and Jerusha Hess, I just wished the effort had been feature length. Welp, I got my wish and this film is every bit as funny as I knew it would be. I’m a smart one. I know my A-B-C’s.
Napoleon Dynamite is an uber-geek high school student – thick glasses, red, messy fro, walks kinda like he has a stick up his ass, looks like his mama dresses him – who spends his time drawing flatulent unicorns, scouring the local thrift store for shit like bad dance instruction tapes, jamming his pockets full with tater tots and engaging in plenty of other odd activites. As we observe Napoleon’s daily eccentricities, we meet his grandmother who goes off to race a quad runner in the desert only to end up putting herself in the hospital, his brother, Kip, who spends most of his time chatting with women online, their bozo door-to-door salesman uncle who plots to build a time machine so he can revisit his football glory days, and Pedro, a new student who Napoleon makes friends with and convinces to run for school president.
The cast playing these eccentric characters is magnificent. Each actor perfectly compliments the Hess’s original brand of humor that keep steady giggles bubbling from the audience, inspiring frequent bursts of uproarious laughter. This is definitely one of the most unique comedies you’ll see all year. No doubt about it. This one will be heading your way sometime in the near future.

OPEN WATER

That’s just plain mean. Yet even though I knew all along this movie was totally manipulating me, I followed along on the terrifying ride. I feel so dirty and used. For that, Kentis and his great cast deserve big props.
“Open Water” taps into everyone’s fear of being lost. Everyone knows how that feels and that fear is what made “The Blair Witch Project” so stomach churning. It’s also what makes this film so gut wrenching. Well, that and a whole bunch of huge sharks.
Kentis and his cast also deserve huge kudos for the fact that there are no computer effects in this low budget movie. When a shark swims by the lost couple, it’s a real shark. The only tiny issue with “Open Water” is it’s shot on a really low quality DV. I’m not anti-DV by any means but the continuity suffers big time here. That’s a minor quibble though as this film is downright freaky. Every hour that ticks by your stomach drops a little more as the outlook becomes more bleak.
Another interesting aspect of this movie is the script. We literally see these people lose their minds as they drift and drift…and drift in the endless sea. I do feel bad for the dive industry as anyone who sees “Open Water” will likely never set foot on a dive boat again. It is based on a true story. But the thrill of this movie probably makes up for that.

RIDING GIANTS

For its first-ever opening night in Park City, the Sundance Film Festival chose to premiere "Riding Giants," the first documentary to open the festival. It was an understandable though curious choice. Understandable because Sundance is not only proud of the large role it has played in showcasing documentaries from its very beginnings, but the festival also loves to celebrate its alumni. "Riding Giants" director Stacy Peralta won the audience and director awards at the 2001 Sundance for his docu "Dogtown and Z-Boys." Curious because this film about surfing fails to thoroughly investigate the subculture and all too easily settles for an admiring promotional film, albeit one with lively moments, a good sense of humor and colorful real-life figures who will captivate even nonsurfers.
At the moment, however, the film is unlikely to play to many nonsurfers. "Riding Giants" is at least 15 minutes too long. Repetitive shots of giant waves and wipeouts diminish rather than enhance one's appreciation of the courage of today's surfers. "Riding Giants" seems intent on selling the sport rather than examining why people are willing to risk their necks to challenge nature at her most volatile.
While the film begins with a brief historical overview of the sport, the focus swiftly shifts to one subject: the lure of riding "big waves," swells that can reach up to 70 feet. While this is a bit like making a documentary on boxing that focuses only on heavyweights while ignoring all other weight divisions, there is no doubt this is the most exciting and dangerous aspect of the sport.
In an often tongue-in-cheek manner, Peralta and co-writer Sam George trace the evolution of big-wave riding from the conquest of Hawaii's Waimea Bay in the 1950s, following the introduction of lighter boards made of balsa and fiber glass, to today's tow-in surfing that allows surfers to ride giants.
Three figures emerge: Greg Noll, who, with his muscular build and striped trunks, led the charge in the '50s and '60s
Jeff Clark, who discovered but kept secret for a while the treacherous Mavericks surfing area in Northern California
and Laird Hamilton, today's blond god of contemporary Hawaiian surfing.
The movie has fun with the Gidget movies that, while popularizing the sport around the world, were treated with contempt by real surfers. It also has solemn moments, showing the drowning death of top Hawaiian surfer Mark Foo at Mavericks in 1994.
Peralta, who made his mark with skateboarding movies, is new to surfing films. He is either unaware of or unwilling to utilize the advanced techniques and surf-cam operators employed by filmmakers like Dana Brown, whose "Step Into Liquid," released last year, let viewers get up close and personal with big-wave riders while inside those watery tubes.
As waves pound endlessly at the audience and big questions about the surfing lifestyle and lure of risk-taking never get asked, the movie shamelessly exposes its own promotional side. For a film exec produced by Laird Hamilton to call Laird Hamilton the best big-wave surfer ever is not only disingenuous but ignores the controversy of that statement in the surfing world. Hamilton may well be top dog, but he tends to shun championship competitions, where it might be put to a test.
The use of archival footage, much of which is probably home movies, is quite good, and Peralta's interviews often produce sharp, revealing comments. But he and his cohorts let salesmanship triumph over filmmaking.